Ruiisag Bane
by Peahopeless
Summary: Long ago while in the confines of Larkhill, V made a bargain. His life since then has been spent in pursuit of seeing the deal honoured. Tonight, as he lies on the train making its way to Parliament, V is given the chance to see the other half fulfilled.


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**Disclaimer:** As always, they're not mine and never will be. These characters and places belong to Alan Moore, DC Comics, Wachowski brothers, and Warner Bros.

**Author's Note: **This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), **but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website.** Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.

**This story has accompanying artwork.** To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Ruiisag Bane".

**Special notes:** These can be found at the bottom of the page, after the story.

**This story is from early in the PEAhopeless timeline.**

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**Ruiisag Bane** (Gaelic for "White Rose")

"What's it like when you're dead?  
You still dream."  
- Charles de Lint, "The Pochade Box"

Roses.

Ahhh, the scent of them. Sweet and heady. Rich and unique. And for V, filled with memories. For over twenty years, it was those beautiful blossoms that had provided his only long-term, true companionship.

In Larkhill, they had brought life when the rest of his world was dying. Offering hope when his prison suggested nothing but despair. And when it was time for him to leave, it was their food which had fueled his escape, punching a hole like the fist of God through previously impenetrable walls.

Afterward, they had continued to fill his solitary existence with their loyalty, refusing to die despite being forced into life beneath the earth's surface. Natural sunlight had been denied them, just as the world above had been denied V. And yet both had survived, side by side.

In a way, they had even kept up with his emotional progression. ... ... Or perhaps 'digression'. Sometimes he wondered which description was more apt. ... ... As his anger and bitterness had festered over the years, finally turning a deadly cold, the roses, too, had taken on a new persona. By the end, they were no longer merely a remembrance to those lost at Larkhill. They were the calling cards of death, used to twist his victims' final moments into terror.

And right now, they were all around him, their scent so strong it was almost making him queasy.

Or maybe he was ill? His eyes wouldn't seem to open either.

It smelled a bit like a room in the Shadow Gallery. Roses. Even a hint of fertilizer and gelignite ... ingredients usually stored in his explosives room. Was that where he was? His Shadow Gallery?

His memories were a bit fuzzy, probably due to whatever illness was combining with the flowers to turn his stomach. But he did have a vague memory of being with Evey. And yes, he had indeed shown her his rose-covered shrine to Valerie -- -- representative of all those nameless souls who had lost their lives to the horror.

Evey had understood.

He knew she would, in the end.

... ... Dear Evey.

Is that where they both were now? Was she in the Shadow Gallery with him?

One of his most vivid memories at the moment, was one that both thrilled and jarred him to the core. ... ... That of lying in Evey's arms.

Fuzzy, hazy moments ... but still ... lying in those arms he had wanted to feel for so long.

Unfortunately, every time the thought reared up in his head, he was just so shocked he could barely see it clearly. The overpowering scent of roses that surrounded him now, however ... ... it made him wonder if maybe that was the answer. Maybe they were down in the Gallery right this very moment. Maybe the reason that memory was so strong, was because it was actually happening.

... ... Right now!

... ... Maybe he'd fallen asleep within the immeasurable comfort of her embrace. And maybe that's why he couldn't open his eyes. Maybe he just didn't want to, wishing for more, more, and still more time with this lovely girl.

Was this another step in his life, that the roses were seeing him through? Had they charmed her when he couldn't? Soothed her with a fragrance so sweet, that it overcame any discomfort from being in the presence of a 'monster'? Is that why she was holding him?

If this were merely a dream, he had no desire to awaken. But if there were any chance that this was real ... ... if those hazy memories of her embrace were true ... ... he would not miss it for the world. And with a willpower even he did not know he had, he slowly forced open his eyes.

He was on the train. The one he'd planned on giving to Evey.

Had he already done so? Was she here too?

Turning his head, the first thing he found was a rose. A Scarlet Carson, dropping against the mask's cheek ... almost as if trying to comfort the wearer. Evey, however, was nowhere in sight ... nor could he even detect her presence.

As he scanned his surroundings though, he did notice something odd. There was a tile, visible through one of the train's windows. ... ... He recognized it. ... ... It was the next mile marker, denoting his position as only one more station platform away from Parliament Square. And that was not where he had left the train as he'd loaded it with its cargo.

It had moved, but currently stood still. And apparently now he was part of its cargo as well.

Trying to sit up, he winced at the pain screaming through his body, then almost gagged at the flood of blood in his mouth.

Blood.

His own blood.

... ... And that was when the memory crystallized.

Yes, he had indeed ... finally ... experienced that moment of lying in Evey's embrace. It was not filled with delight though, as he had always imagined. It was a nightmare. A horrible nightmare as he lay dying in her arms.

Blood had been everywhere. On him. In him. Even on her, staining the last vision he would ever have of her beauty.

He had died ... or at least he thought he had ... despite Evey's best attempts at prevention or remedy. His need for vengeance had won at last, pulling him under too. And he could only thank whatever God or fates existed that it had not drug her along as well.

Somehow, she must have loaded him onto this train, and then moved it quite a bit further down the tracks. Exactly how, he had no idea. Especially if she was not also here on the train to stop it. But nevertheless, here he was.

As he moved, still more red blossoms dropped from his body. And suddenly, they were no longer a comfort, but a cruel taunt.

No, they had not finally brought Evey to him, for the one joy he seemed destined never to experience. They had not granted his wish. They had betrayed him, escorting him away from her and into death. After all of these years ... after all of their loyalty ... they had betrayed him in the most unforgivable way.

Even so, they continued to cling to his cloak as his weak, injured arms tried to push them away.

And he was still doing so ... brushing them angrily to the floor ... when he noticed that he was not alone. -- -- -- A youngish girl with coal black hair, sat atop a stack of bundled fertilizer. ... Most out of place.

She wore black ... all black ... with an ankh around her neck and an umbrella by her side. And she looked vaguely -- distantly -- familiar. Memories reinforced for twenty years were easier to retrieve than the blur of his final hours, and recognition came to him in only seconds more.

Valerie? ... ... She who had perished at Larkhill? ... ... But rather than invoking the horror of that obscene prison, her appearance was now vintage ... bedecked in the costume she'd worn for The Salt Flats.

And she smiled as she lifted a white rose to her nose ... stark in its contrast to the deep red blossoms that now littered the floor. ... ... "My favorite," she commented with such a peaceful calm.

V's brain struggled yet again to fathom what exactly was happening. Trying to blend what he could remember -- and even what he couldn't -- into a reality that would explain this woman's appearance.

In the end though, there was something else about the vision ... ... something much deeper. Something he had experienced once before, back in the days of Larkhill. ... Some-one he had experienced. ... A being whose faint presence he had even detected in those violent instances when his justice and revenge had taken the life of another Larkhill villain.

She sat before him as Valerie, but he knew the truth.

Here sat Death.

"I know you," he stated solemnly. The sound of defeat on his voice ... so rare for him. Something few people other than his dear Evey could ever evoke.

The woman nodded sadly. "Everyone and everything meets me at some point. Yes."

... ... V looked away, having known this would come -- even relieved in a small way, that he could finally find some rest. But yet, he found himself still unprepared in his grief. "Then it's over. ... ... I have finished."

The faintest quirk rose at the corner of 'Valerie's' mouth. "Well, actually, that's entirely up to you."

Slowly, V's mask rose again, his confusion evident. Why did his spirit make that brief, tentative leap of hope upon hearing her words? Death wanted but one thing ... he knew that ... how focused she was in her purpose. But yet ... ... Death was not supposed to offer words that inspired hope.

"No man cheats Death," he stated, knowing it to be one of the few truths in the universe. How incongruent it felt that he would have to remind her of such things.

"You wouldn't be cheating me," she replied cryptically, "if it were a bargain fairly kept." In her fingers, the white rose twirled, coyly announcing that there was so much more to this than he currently realized.

"A bargain?" he questioned. His confusion was outweighed only by his resistance to the lure of hope. "I was under the impression that you made no bargains. That you bartered nothing for a life."

"It's not me that you made the deal with," she corrected.

It was a hint. The barest glimmer of a hint. ... Enough to pull one thread up from his memory. Something important. Something life-altering, from deep in his past.

But it was only a thread. "I ... I don't understand," he stammered.

The Valerie before him remained entirely unfazed. She'd seen too much confusion in the past to be affected now ... even when coming from a man as focused as V. ... ... "Yes you do," she assured. "You just talked yourself into believing it never happened."

Behind the mask, V's eyes widened. The thread strengthened and tugged, pulling up with it the shadow of a nightmare made real. Whether he remembered what this woman was referring to or not ... he did know it was not good. It truly was not good. ... ... "No," he argued in agitation. "I don't want to remember. ... I will not."

That's when Death finally approached him, bringing recollection and realization, rather than his end. "I'm sorry for this," she stated regretfully, then touched his hand, shooting a spark up his arm that rivaled any flames he'd ever felt. And with it, he was suddenly transported into that old, dreaded memory.

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His life at Larkhill had been harshly restricted back in those days -- -- before he'd been given the opportunity to do something ... anything ... other than live in constant pain and defilement.

The roses had not yet entered his life with their sweet fragrance, nor had he felt the simple warmth of sunshine for so very long.

They had put something foul and deadly beneath his skin ... an infection ... and it ate at him from the inside out. Even his deepest innards seemed to be rotting from whatever disease they had afflicted him with. And now, his starved and weakened body was beginning to give up the fight, no matter how hard he tried to go on. Every day, other inmates died. And soon, the wheelbarrow would carry him away as well.

Recent days had been spent collapsed in a corner of his cell, wondering how long he had left to live. Sometimes he even thought he could feel the old, grieving eyes of death, heavy upon him ... staring out from the room's shadowy corners. Hallucinations brought on, no doubt, by the continual flow of unknown drugs into his body. But at some points in time, when the pain and despair were at their worst, that hallucination would have been welcomed as reality.

So at first, he didn't really question it, that evening when his room had begun to transform. The walls had -- impossibly -- pulled back. Even arched and bowed, until he seemed to be lying within a deep, dark cavern. And before him, a staircase sloped downward, toward a glow that rose like a cloud into the gloom.

Tentatively, not even certain of what he was doing -- or even why -- he approached, staring down toward what had to be an imaginary fire.

There was no obvious danger though, in this particular hallucination. And compared to the hell he was living in, such a strange mental escape felt almost inviting. So he began to descend the stairway, his steps hobbling and weak.

At the landing, he was confronted with a group of three women, gathered around a spinning wheel. One, old and crabbed -- her expression fearsome and embittered by life -- held a pair of shears as she measured thread from a skein. The second was of more average age, with a motherly air about her. Even gentle and caring, in an odd sort of way, as she skillfully turned the wheel. And the last -- -- a girl barely into womanhood, with long sunny hair, and bedecked in a surprisingly skimpy pink dress. It was her job, apparently, to feed the wool through the spindle.

And he had the distinct impression that while they did not visually acknowledge his presence, they most certainly knew he was there.

"Look, my sister self," stated the elderly woman, not looking up from her work. "Some poor wretch that the cat's dragged in."

The insult was softened by the second woman, leaning forward in her motherly way. "Oh you poor dear. Come have a sit and tell us what has brought you to such a state." Her voice was warm and soothing, and she motioned for him to approach.

Adrenaline flooded through V, and he made a small gasp. ... "I know you. ... I know who you are."

"Ah!" the crone snapped back sarcastically. "You know so much then. For to know us is to be where no one can, and see what cannot be." The three women laughed together then, as if sharing a private joke at his expense.

"You know us?" the young maid then questioned. Why did he remind her of a cat playing with a mouse? "We who are one, the three who are none? Well then since you know so much, do you know why you are here?"

"Yes," V replied, actually finding a little courage, here within this apparent realm of his own imaginings. "Vengeance. That is your business, is it not, my ladies? It is vengeance that I seek, against those who have done this to me. ... And to the others." In his mind, he could still hear the cries of so many lost souls, dying and dead in the cells around him. The anger bubbled up, and his voice gained the confidence of the immortal. "I will see them brought low, and my life will be long and joyous, long after theirs have been made forfeit. They will suffer, even as they now mete out suffering."

The middle woman ... the most kindly of the group ... nodded in understanding. She'd heard such things before, if the expression on her face was any indication. "Well now, my poppet. You are wanting to deal. To bargain. But what of it? To bargain with us, you must have something to bargain with. And by the look of you, my dearie, you are sorely lacking."

"Not just one bargain either, my sister self," the old crone interrupted, her head cocking as if she didn't trust him entirely, and was positive she knew far better than him at the very least. "Me thinks he has just asked two boons of us, no?"

"Indeed he has," the maid replied in an almost taunting fashion. "Indeed he has. And such presumption to think we would hear him!"

"Please!" V implored. "I will do whatever you ask. Give whatever you request."

It was then that they stopped, the three women. ... Stopped their spinning. ... Stopped weaving the lives of all those humans above.

"Careful, my dove," warned the motherly one ... the only one who didn't seem intent on playing with him, even while she now gently disciplined him. "You must be sure to keep your word, when bargaining with us. We do not hold kindly with being foresworn."

"I swear it, my ladies," V said in eager oath. "Name your price."

For a moment, the women glanced among themselves, coming to their agreement. Then the young maid stepped forward, close enough to run a finger across his mouth.

"Two boons you've asked," she began, before her eldest sister approached.

"And two prices you shall pay." The old crone had hobbled closer, peering up at him as she issued her ominous warning.

Behind them, the middle woman wrung her hands, but addressed him with simple sternness. "The dear has asked for justice, my sister self. And justice he will have."

Then the maid leaned closer to the desperate man, looking him straight in the eye. ... ... "And for justice, will you give all? Will you give your hopes? Your thoughts? Your dreams and agonies? Every precious thing you have?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation. His fear was diminishing rapidly, and he met her stare square-on.

And then it came. The end ... ... but in a different way.

Leaning forward, the maid kissed him, stealing his memories and turning his life into little more than a shell. He still breathed. His heart still beat. But everything he once was ... everything that made him, him ... flooded away in a torrent, collapsing him to the floor. He was left on his hands and knees, panting through the pain.

"Then so be it," stated the old crone, not even waiting until the shivering had left his body. That particular loss of memory would continue on for quite some time, and she had no patience for delay. "One bargain, one price. But now you must think on your second boon. What do we want for that, eh?" For the first time in their visitor's presence, the bitter old crone smiled ... the most unnerving, snaggle-toothed smile.

The middle woman cocked her head, recalling this man's proclaimed wishes. "To live in comfort long after your justice is done ... ... this is what you ask?"

"Yes," V grunted as best he could, still breathing heavily through the last ripples of searing pain.

"Then for this boon," she continued, "you must give up what only another may see, but you must live within."

And at her words, the pain resumed, the virus digging its first permanent scars into his face. She nodded in sad silence, knowing it must be done. Knowing that even after the virus had run its course and left his body ... ... there would be still more forces of nature, inflicting their wrath upon his skin.

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It was with the memory of that vivid agony, that V returned to himself ... there on the tube train held frozen in time. He was on the floor, having fallen to his knees under the flood of memories, Death holding his hand throughout the pain.

"My God," he groaned. "I believed it to be hallucination. ... No more than a fever dream."

"It was, and it wasn't," Death replied, as cryptically as ever. "Most things like that are always more than they seem."

On that, she helped him rise from his knees, supporting his weight as he sat back against a stack of fertilizer. Then she forced his attention, making certain that he listened ... ... ... truly listened.

Her offer was simple ... ... "You can stay and collect on your deal, or you can come with me."

Behind the mask, V's eyes squinted, trying to find coherency. The pain was finally abating, only to be replaced with confusion. "I don't understand. How is this my choice?"

"Because no matter what deals or promises you've made, you are still human. You still have free will. If not for your bargain, there would be no discussion. You would have to come with me, whether you liked it or not." ... ... Her final words were spoken sadly, as she always empathized with those she must collect.

... ... Seconds passed ... or at least seemed to ... while the world around him remained frozen. In his current state, deciphering and understanding the choices was a more difficult task than usual. But the decision, in the end, was most easy.

"I do not know how anyone or anything could guarantee peace of mind," he began, "but I think I will stay. I must ensure that the revolution is successful. That in its infancy, it does not fall to another regime. ... ... And I would like to see Evey again. Even if only to make sure that she's well."

Death nodded. How perceptive this man was. ... ... "You're right. Nothing can guarantee happiness. But to quote a wise man ... 'There is no certainty, only opportunity'." She gave him a wink and a smile, amused to have used his own words back at him.

Then she stood, opening her umbrella as if preparing for a journey. "Just try and remember that opportunity is not infinite. ... Don't forget to let others have their own, even if you don't agree."

And as she started to fade away, her form slowly disappearing to nothingness, she offered one last piece of advice. -- -- "You'd better get moving ... she's missing you already."

"What?" V asked, looking up in surprise.

But all that remained was the echo of Death's voice. ... ... "See you around ..."

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V's eyes opened, and he found himself surrounded by the scent of roses.

He was on the train, and it clack-clacked along on its journey.

His body hurt. His head hurt. Even his soul hurt in a way ... as if having been put through an almighty strain. But he was awake at least, and glancing around himself.

He lay horizontal, on a bed of what he guessed was explosives. And outside one window, a mile marker passed, signaling that Westminster Station's platform was only the shortest distance away.

Westminster. ... ... ... The Houses of Parliament were not far beyond.

Something had happened, hadn't it, in these last few minutes of ... ... life? The silhouette of a conversation he didn't even remember having, remained lodged in his thoughts. And he sat up, grimacing as his bullet-ridden body complained.

Red roses fell all around him, cascading off his cloak in a flurry of petals.

... ... Roses.

... ... Yes. Something about the roses.

Blood red -- matching the blood that was still oozing from his flesh. Angry red -- just like the anger that had filled him for so very many years.

Something about the roses.

... ... And something else?

He couldn't quite recall, and had no time to search the haze of his memory. Westminster was approaching, and he needed to get off this train.

The revolution needed his watchful eye ... that he knew.

And Evey ... ... sweet, dear Evey ... ... perhaps she needed his watchful eye as well ... and that, he hoped.

The last of the roses fell to the floor, and he staggered toward the doors. He'd have to pry them open and make a jump for the platform. But he could do it. If he could take down Creedy and his henchmen, he could do this too.

A near slip, from which he recovered quickly ... then he lunged toward the waiting doors.

And that was when he saw it. On a stack of fertilizer.

... ... One single white rose.

... ... A memory that was trying so very hard to come back into focus.

But he didn't have time for such refocusing. Not now. Not while this train was heading toward its date with destiny. And not while Evey may be requiring his protection, somewhere out there in the new world to come.

There was, however, a different memory he could also claim over such a bloom ... and it floated easily through his mind, coming to him willingly.

Back in his days at Larkhill, the red roses had matched him so perfectly. Blood and anger. ... ... Anger in the blood.

But now those red roses lay scattered on the floor, unable to hold him down.

Yet this white one ... ... ...

He knew the language of flowers. -- -- Had learned it while honing his gardening skills back at the prison camp. And he knew those subtler meanings of such a 'white rose'.

Purity.

Clean and new.

And one association in particular. -- -- A love stronger than death.

He knew Death had been near. No matter what his mind had conjured ... waking or asleep ... he knew that Death had been near.

But now death was gone, and he remained. -- -- Holding the white rose.

... ... There was a reason for that.

And with that thought, he threw his strength behind the doors, shoving them open in a monumental burst of energy.

A countdown, as the last platform approached. -- -- Westminster. His escape route.

Maybe even a passage into a newer beginning. A cleaner beginning, if fate would simply smile on him.

Ten seconds.

Then five.

... And he jumped ... leaving every last red rose behind.

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Death is before me today:  
Like the recovery of a sick man,  
Like going forth into a garden after sickness

Death is before me today:  
Like the odor of myrrh,  
Like sitting under a sail in a good wind.

Death is before me today:  
Like the course of a stream  
Like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house.

Death is before me today:  
Like the home that a man longs to see,  
After years spent as a captive.

-- Pyramid Texts (3000 BC)

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**Author's Note:** This is one story of many (over 100) that are written in a timeline format. Not all of these stories have been posted on this site yet (some of them -- rated for adults only -- will never be posted to this site), **but all of my stories -- including those not posted here yet -- have been posted on my aol website.** Just click on my username for more information on how to get to my homepage, or do a search on PEAhopeless V for Vendetta Fan Fiction on the internet.

**This story has accompanying artwork.** To view them, visit my aol homepage and click on, "Ruiisag Bane".

**Special notes:** Because this is a co-authored story; and because it is so critical in the timeline; and because it is unique in that it contains multiple characters that some may not be familiar with, I'd like to say a few things, and I ask that both old and new readers please bear with me for a moment. THIS is where we'll get V off that train, at the end of the movie.

First off, I want to make sure I address all of my readers, knowing that they come from quite varied backgrounds. This story is unique and quite special, in that it uses characters from Neil Gaiman's graphic novel series "The Sandman", as well as "Death: The high cost of living".

**If** you are a new reader, and especially if you are not familiar with comics, please understand that I (peahopeless) am just as illiterate at comics as you are. So we've tried to incorporate these characters in a way that everyone can understand and enjoy this story.

And if this is the first story you've ever read here, rest assured that while this is indeed a rather painful one, the rest of this universe **will** go on to find V and Evey rebuilding their relationship in post-revolution London. Just look at some of the later stories in Act III, Paradiso. ... ... But we did have to get him off that blasted train first.

After all these years, this is the first story I've ever "co-written". It was done with our artist "Angelcide", and may I say, it was an amazingly thrilling experience.

Angel knows these Gaiman characters extremely well. And I mean that. This story was born when she suggested that Gaiman's characters be used to get V off the train. The actual dialogue herein, is primarily hers. She wrote out a dialogue script for the conversations below, and provided me with good descriptions of the characters' demeanors, motivations, attitudes, appearances, etc.. I did do some rewording of V's lines, just to make sure he still sounded "like V", but other than that, these conversations are all Angelcide's.

I then wrapped the conversation into prose and added the other narration, thoughts, and scenes ... tying it off with a great big bow of roses. (You'll see what I mean in a minute.) I've been wanting to comment on V's long-term relationship with roses for quite some time, as well as play with the meanings of associated colors, and this seemed like the ideal place to do it. And might I also add that some of these scenes were the most painful I've written in at least five years. Only one arc in my Doctor Who world ever bothered me this much while writing. In fact, I requested a particular picture from Angel, to help soothe this. It is included at the very end of the story (posted on my aol site), in case anyone else is hurting too much after this too. With that said, though, I think this is one of my favorites.

Finally, I want to leave you with a few details you must know, if you're not familiar with Gaiman's characters. "Death" has the ability to appear in different forms to different people. When she appears (yes, "Death" is a "she"), time stops.


End file.
